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“Yes?” the speaker asks, looking relieved to finally get off the subject.
“I’d like to ask the best study route at St. Camford to become an official activist and ambassador for Antiro.”
Then again, maybe not. Maybe I’m still in that parallel world where I’ve lost all contact with the rest of my peers, and the only people who make any kind of sense anymore are the chiefs.
Danny looks perplexed. “What, activist is a career now?”
“Sure. If you’re enough of one, and your personality’s bold enough, you can even be crowned king.” Rory has utterly checked out of this. I’ve never seen him look so jaded before, and I wonder how he expected the St. Camford open day to go. “If you want doors to open and people to worship you, call yourself an activist, talk all over everyone, and watch the money roll in.”
“Activism should be about passion, not money-making,” I say, certain in my soul about this. I remember my talk about this with Oscar Munro, and of reaching a similar conclusion. “Money poisons everything — why would it not infect political thought and activism, too? It’s naive to think otherwise.”
Rory shrugs. “Some people just want to look like they did something good in their lives and have their name in lights, even if they do fuck-all to deserve it. It’s all a performance. Showboating.”
The next, and final, question is another one relating to the monarchy. By this point, I’m slumped in my seat with my head on Rory’s shoulder, his arm wrapped possessively around me, and I’m gazing up sadly at the lone figure of Luke in the rafters.
“Have the textbooks of the political history department been corrected to reflect current views?”
“Yes, absolutely,” the professor says, sounding energetic for the first time all session. “Obviously, we’re in an exciting time politically and events are unfolding on a day-to-day basis. But over the summer we’ve taken the initiative to get rid of all outdated texts referring to — well, you-know-what — the better to reflect historical accuracy.”
“The fucking irony,” Rory mutters, and I realize belatedly that he’s cursed a whole lot during this talk. It’s like he can’t contain his rage underneath that aristocratic rich-boy veneer. “Textbooks reflecting historical accuracy when he’s claiming the royals aren’t royal and were never on the throne and thatBenjiis unquestionably king. They’re literally erasing Luke’s family from history.”
“What are the chances they’ve written about Benji being the one true heir and how he always has been?”
“I don’t get it,” Danny says, sounding confused. “How can they not see how blinded they are and what massive hypocrites they’ve become? They’re tying themselves in knots to placate a bunch of banana-brained fools.”
As we’re guided out of the lecture hall, having been thoroughlylecturedand feeling it, there’s a soft hissing noise from the pews behind us.
“Pssst.”
I turn my head in the direction of the sound and see a young woman with cropped auburn hair whose eyes are darting shiftily in many different directions. She looks nervous even talking to us.
“I couldn’t help but overhear you — and you reallyshouldkeep your voice down, you know — but…” She licks her lips, glancing around again, and her voice gradually strengthens with every word she speaks. “Are you free this afternoon? We’re holding a demonstration. About Benjamin Moncrieff, and how he should never be king.”
